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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428124">Psithurism</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey'>AnaliseGrey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Liminal Set [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Critical Role (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caduceus backstory, Gen, Prompt Fill, blooming grove</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:54:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's quiet in the Blooming Grove.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Liminal Set [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Psithurism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>Psithurism</i>- the sound of wind rustling leaves</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s quiet in the Blooming Grove.</p>
<p>Not as quiet as it will be in a few months once deep winter has set in, a thick blanket of snow capping the surrounding trees and forest paths, muffling sound. For now it’s the calm before a rainstorm, the air charged and waiting, but still.</p>
<p>Caduceus doesn’t change his routine. The dead don’t care about the weather, or how quiet it is, and so he doesn’t either. Routine is good, especially now.</p>
<p>It keeps him going, keeps him motivated. It’s good to have structure, to have something to follow in the overwhelming quiet. </p>
<p>Quiet, but not silent; even in a place of the dead, there’s still too much life to ever be really silent. The call of birds, the scuttle of insects; the rustle of leaves as the breeze blows through, carrying the scent of the flowers that grow among the stones of the venerated families.</p>
<p>He keeps himself occupied, tending the garden, maintaining the burial grounds; he reinforces the fences where he can, but knows the corruption is getting worse, pushing in against the safe, quiet bubble that is the Blooming Grove.</p>
<p>He worries that it won’t bloom for much longer.</p>
<p>He speaks to the Wildmother as he works. She’s always in his thoughts and speaking to her has always been easy for him, natural. Even when she doesn’t answer, he knows she’s listening; it’s a balm for the ache that fills him when he thinks about his family. He’s proud of them, of what they’re doing, what they’re <em> trying </em>to do. He understands why they had to leave, and doesn’t begrudge them their journeys. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss them, though. The first few seasons after the last of them left were the hardest, but now he’s almost used to it. He doesn’t expect to wake up to the sound of their breathing anymore, doesn't expect them to walk around the side of the garden gate while he’s weeding.</p>
<p>Every once in awhile he’ll get the urge to pick up and go, to follow after his parents and siblings, to see more than the peaceful confines of his grove, but he gets distracted; there’s always one more thing to do before he can leave, and another, and another. And so, each time, he stays.</p>
<p>The day they arrive, he’s been hearing the Wildmother’s whispers on the wind, in the rustle of the leaves, the excited flitting of the beetles that hover around his staff. Something is coming, even if he doesn’t know what, but he’s nothing if not patient. Whatever it is will get here when it gets here.</p>
<p>He’s making tea when he hears them, voices coming from the Savalierwood and over the fences. His ears flick, picking out some of the words as he pours the steaming water into a cup, and decides they’re likely not a threat. A wave of warmth floods him, the touch of the Wildmother, and he realizes this is <em> it</em>, the thing he’s been waiting for, the <em> people </em>he’s been waiting for, and while he’s scared and little nervous, he’s also excited. He’s been waiting for so long, and now it’s finally time- to join the world, find his place in it, and follow the will of the Mother wherever it may lead him.</p>
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